


Opium

by blackmariahlee



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Cecil is Mostly Human, Cecil is a little depressed, Gen, Pre-Relationship, slight spoilers for Poetry Week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-14
Updated: 2013-11-14
Packaged: 2018-01-01 11:22:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1044245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackmariahlee/pseuds/blackmariahlee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of episode 20, Poetry Week, Cecil goes home and attempts to write his own poetry. But ends up contemplating Carlos and their relationship. Or lack thereof.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Opium

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is my first fanfic for Welcome to Night Vale. I would really love any constructive criticism people would like to give. Since it's been a long time since people have actually read my writing. This was just an idea that wouldn't leave me alone and I felt that I should start contributing to my fandoms again, so here it is. My first contribution to this fandom. I may add more as ideas come to me. 
> 
> The title comes from the song "Opium" by: Marcy's Playground

               Cecil lets the door to his apartment close quietly behind him and he sighs. It’s dark and silent and welcoming in a way that the studio had not been today.  The broadcaster stood for a moment in the pitch black of his apartment. He leaned back against the door and slowly slid down it, sitting on the floor. Cecil pulled his knees up to his chest and rested his cheek against them. The false cheer seeping from his face and his limbs as though the darkness were pulling it away from him.

                It had been a particularly rough day. The station intern, Dana, had been trapped in the dog park. And he had really liked Dana. She showed initiative and spunk. And had lasted longer than any intern in the last six months. But now she was gone too. To be replaced tomorrow morning by some other poor soul. The first day of Poetry Week. He scoffed and ran a hand through his hair. Cecil usually enjoyed Poetry Week quite a bit. Even if the poetry wasn’t always great, it was still poetry. It was still the written word. Creativity from his fellow citizens. But this week…it wasn’t looking so good.

                Cecil wasn’t sure how long he sat against the door of his apartment. Clocks, after all, weren’t to be trusted. Apparently. He glanced at the clock anyway. It had only been a few minutes. And had felt like an eternity. Cecil heaved a sigh and pushed his way to standing once more. After all, he couldn’t just mope around the front door. No. He needed to change into his pajamas, grab that bottle of wine in the fridge, the pint of ice cream in the freezer, and lay around in bed moping.

                Once Cecil had retrieved all of the required items for sulking in bed, he pulled out the notebook he had set aside for Poetry Week. He flipped it open and practically glared at the blank, white pages staring back at him. Last night, he had spent a frustrating two hours trying to write something that he could read on air today as encouragement to get others in the spirit of Poetry Week. Cecil was usually so good with words. But every thought that had come to him had been…well…not very upbeat. Or decent for community radio. Not due to any explicit language or themes but, literally everyone would know who he was talking about. Who his whiny, sappy, heartbroken poems would be written for.

                _Carlos_. Even his name was perfect. Perfect, beautiful, brilliant, _stupid_ Carlos. Cecil sighed heavily and lifted the wine glass to his lips, nearly draining it. That wasn’t fair. Carlos wasn’t stupid. Carlos was so incredibly intelligent and gifted. It was Cecil who was stupid. Cecil who’s brain to mouth filter failed miserably in the presence of Carlos. Cecil who was neither tall nor short. Cecil who was neither fat nor thin. Cecil who was so incredibly average it strained credulity. Cecil who was not a brilliant scientist. He hadn’t even taken Chemistry in school. Nooooooo. Because Journalism was so cool. And Modified Sumerian was far more fascinating.

                It had been months. Cecil couldn’t sure how many exactly. You know, what with time not working. But Carlos had been in Night Vale for months. They even talked more now! Carlos would make the occasional phone call. Always prefaced with, “I’m not calling for personal reasons.” Which was totally fine! But, it was just, well…Cecil had kind of been hoping that after all this time, Carlos would have begun to reciprocate at least some of those feelings or Cecil would move on. Neither had happened. And Cecil found himself stuck. Trapped. Floating in this strange place where he was in love with Carlos. And Carlos saw their “relationship” as “professional” and “not personal”. 

                Cecil wondered if he had maybe come on a little too strong at first. So he had dialed it back. He tried not to mention Carlos specifically when he would talk about the scientists and their experiments. He tried to just smile politely and wave, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically, when he saw Carlos around town. All right, so he _may_ have given Carlos his number but that was completely innocent! Friendly even. But that hadn’t worked. So Cecil had tried so hard, too hard, desperately hard, not to think about Carlos at all. Because, really. What was so great about Carlos anyway? _Everything_ was usually his answer.

                It’s just…it was so _hard_. Loving someone who barely gave him the time of day. Loving someone who wouldn’t even at least consider being his friend. Cecil may not be perfect, sure. He may have some demons and suffer from the occasional existential crisis, but was he really _that bad_? He supposed he must be. For perfect, beautiful, genius Carlos to not even glance his way.     

                Cecil stared at the blank, white pages of his notebook. He ignored the wet splotches dotting the page as he closed it and set it aside. It was just a bad night. Maybe everything would be better in the morning. The empty wine bottle and pint of ice cream were thrown in the trash. His teeth were brushed, his alarm was set, and he settled into the warm comfort of his bed. Cecil just wanted this feeling to go away. He felt worthless, not good enough, and just generally depressed. And he went to bed tonight with the same hope as every night for the past six months. That maybe, it would be better tomorrow.  


End file.
